


One-offs, Single Shots & One Word Prompts

by inbox



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Fallout Kink Meme, Fanart, Food, Gen, Genderswap, Ghouls, Hangover, Letters, Lipstick, M/M, Marking, Marriage, Meet-Cute, Mirror Sex, Mirrors, NSFW Art, New Year's Eve, Nipple Piercings, One Word Prompt Meme, One Word Prompts, Piercings, Scars, Shorts, Smoking, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mini fills, short stories and word prompt fills from around the place. Explicit chapters are clearly marked with NSFW tags in the chapter title so they can be avoided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Futile - M!Courier/Arcade

"This is brahminshit." He threw his pencil down on the table - a childish gesture, albeit a satisfying one - and rather more carefully put down his book.  
  
It was a gift, an  _impeccable_  gift of highest thoughtfulness, presented without comment on the occasion of his fortieth birthday. An entire book of crosswords, the paper unmarked and pristine, and a box of brand new NCR issue pencils. Arcade has been thrilled to unwrap it, and said — with more of a quaver to his voice that he was strictly comfortable with — that he'd never received such a thoughtful present.  
  
"Settle down," said Six evenly, not looking up from his well worn copy of the Shady Sands Gazette. "Don't go gettin' all feisty. It'll upset yer stomach."  
  
"Don't patronise me," muttered Arcade, without much malice.  
  
Six merely took a sip of his coffee and turned the page. "What's the problem?"  
  
" _Fuel is mixed and it is added; alas, with pointless results._  Six letters."  
  
"Hmm." He folded over his paper and stared thoughtfully at the fading whitewash on the kitchen cabinets. Finally, eventually, he looked at Arcade.  
  
"Futile."  
  
"I know it's futile. That's why I'm annoyed, in case that wasn't obvious. I can normally work out these cryptic crosswords but I'm--"  
  
"Naw, you big fool.  _Futile_."  
  
"Oh," said Arcade, sounding faintly put out. "That's… that's it. Right. Good."  
  
He licked the tip of his pencil and carefully filled in the squares. He wrote lightly, the strokes faint enough that he could take some gum to the paper later and erase the answers. Arcade figured that he could put it away when he'd finished the last puzzle; wait out enough time to forget the answers and treat it like a whole new book to be conquered.  
  
"Don't sound so disappointed. That big ol' brain can't always be on." Six shook out his newspaper and turned the page to the sports section. "Yer Fighting Wanamingos went 0-6 for the season last week."  
  
“No chance of them winning the city pennant,” said Arcade, as he tapped his pencil on the next question. “Hoping for that, now that's--”  
  
“Now that's futile,” said Six, beating him to the punchline. He grinned and finished off his coffee, ignoring the pencil that bounced off his elbow.


	2. Challenge - F!Courier/Veronica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Challenge - F!Courier/Veronica

Out of all the things Six loved about Veronica, one of the things she loved the most was the fact that the scribe was, more or less, game for anything. She loved everything else, of course. The spray of freckles across her nose. The way she rolled herself up in their blankets, defying the chill of a desert night. The way she sometimes snorted when she laughed. Veronica's smile, her strength, that ticklish spot behind her knee, her everything.   
  
Clear out a Legion encampment with nothing but a Power Fist and a couple of Buffouts? No problem.   
  
Running up a gravel conveyer to jump down and punch a Deathclaw in the back of the head? Sure.   
  
Convincing Arcade to finally start picking up his wet towels from the floor of the Lucky 38's bathroom? Veronica succeeded where even Lily had failed. Whether it was through threats or politeness, Six wasn't quite sure and really didn't care.   
  
The point was that Veronica, the star who shined the brightest in the firmament of Six's love, relished a challenge.


	3. Silence - Arcade/Boone (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence - Arcade/Boone

The room is silent, except when it isn't. His own breathing, in and out, grating and harsh in his ears. The creak of his boots as he curls his toes and pushes the balls of his feet into the dirty floor, cracked leather protesting against the strain and stretch. He fancies he can hear the heavy droplets of semen sliding down Boone's chin, falling onto his legs, falling onto the carpet and smearing into the dust.  
  
Somewhere in the motel someone turns on a radio, loud enough that the sound seeps in through the old Novac walls, distorted and distant.   
  
Arcade tidies himself up and splashes his face, then wrings out a damp cloth and frowns at the way the old pipes knock in the walls. Boone obediently turns up his chin when Arcade passes the cloth along his neck and wipes him clean in slow careful strokes. He doesn't say a word, still down deep in his own head, still and quiet. Silent as always, except when he isn't.

* * *

 


	4. Crash - Arcade & Veronica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crash - Arcade & Veronica

"I'll tell you how I started working for the Followers on one condition. You can't tell anyone." Arcade tapped his fingers on the worn red Formica for emphasis. "Anyone."  
  
Veronica raised an eyebrow. "This had better be good."  
  
"It's embarrassing." He grinned into his beer. "I know how much you love other people's embarrassment."  
  
"I do, I do. Spit it out."  
  
"So I was sixteen or so, and living with my aunt Daisy. Have you met her? You should, she's basically you in forty years time."  
  
" _Arcade_."  
  
"She's a technical genius. She used to fly vertibirds for, uh, a private militia. You've never heard of them. Anyway, Daisy drove trucks in the Hub for years. I'm some snot-nosed punk wasting all my time playing baseball and eating all her food, so she decided that I should pull my weight."  
  
Veronica ran her fingertip through the puddle of condensation under her glass, spinning the water out into a delicate swirling pattern. "So far I'm giving this story a four out of ten."  
  
"You're being impatient, more like it. Daisy did some deliveries for the Followers and decided I'd be more useful to them than I was to her, and dragged me down to the nearest office and volunteered me."  
  
"For medical stuff?"  
  
"Ha! No. No, as a truck driver."  
  
Veronica let out an inelegant snort and clapped her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry Arcade," she said through her fingers, "but that's just… not you."  
  
He shook his head. "Oh, it gets better, trust me. So there I am for the first few weeks, sitting in the passenger seat and moving boxes of supplies and dragging around Auto-Doc parts, stuff you'd be excellent at, and finally the guy hands me the keys and says that it's my time to drive."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And I crashed the truck right into the gate of the Followers compound, like I'd been aiming for it." Arcade sat back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head, grinning. "At no point had I ever thought to mention that Daisy had never actually taught me how to drive anything more than her old motorcycle. I think even she forgot."  
  
Veronica put her head on the table and laughed until her eyes watered. "That must've cost a fortune! I can't believe they kept you around."  
  
"I think the same thing all the time." He reached over and flicked back her hood until she looked up. "Not that I'm telling you what to do--"  
  
"For a change."   
  
"Thank you," he said dryly. "I'm trying to make a point here, Ronnie. If they kept me around for the best part of twenty years despite being, well, me, imagine how well you'll do with the Followers."  
  
"Yeah," she said, wiping her watery eyes with the back of her sleeve. "I guess. It's something to look into."  
  
"Take a chance," he said kindly. "You can repair any crashed trucks."  
  
"Are you sure I can't tell anyone about this? Not even Cass? What about Boone?"  
  
" _Veronica._ "


	5. Dim - Arcade Gannon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dim - Arcade Gannon

Arcade Gannon is a morning person. He's not a morning person because he welcomes the fresh start to a new day - he doesn't - or because he's keen to maximise the amount of good he can do - he isn't. He's a morning person because being a morning person is the only way to snatch a brief five minute window of time where he's not yoked to a microscope and he isn't in meetings and Julie isn't giving him  _that_  look and he's not scraping Freeside vomit off his boots.  
  
A man needs his five minutes.  _Sanity_  needs those five minutes.  
  
He takes his five minutes in the cool light before dawn, cocooned in musty sheets and motheaten pillows in the murky dim confines of his tent, and resolutely doesn't think about the day ahead of him. The day hasn't started, the sun hasn't risen, and for five whole minutes he can feel just a little less dispirited about the complete and utter futility of the day ahead of him, and the day after that, and the day after that.   
  
 _Minima maxima sunt._


	6. Reality - Arcade & Julie Farkas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality - Arcade & Julie Farkas
> 
> This also ties into what happens directly after The End: http://archiveofourown.org/works/398067

He rehearsed this moment in his head all the way from Hoover Dam to the gates of Freeside, popping the seals of his undersuit and taking deep breaths of cool night air (too sweet, too still, his nose still burning with warm blood and sunburned concrete and the ozone snap of a plasma rifle firing too hot). He passed his father's helmet from hand to a heavy gloved hand as he went over and over in his mind how his reveal - his indiscretion - would play out as he found his safehouse in outer Vegas.  
  
Surely Julie would call him into her office and say  _Arcade, take a seat_  in that no-nonsense tone she always used whenever he’s overstepped his boundaries in one way or another, and he’d sit down and smooth his trousers over his knees and would do his best not to fidget. They’d discuss his… his predicament and work out what to do.   
  
He hung up his father's armor, showered and shaved and steeled himself for the day ahead. He believed in Julie. He believed in an ideal, in  _the_  ideal. Surely things would work out, and it would turn out that he hadn’t made a boneheaded short sighted decision in some half-assed attempt to serve the greater good after all.  
  
It would be fine, he told himself. Things will be fine. Things will be normal.  
  
Julie met him in his cramped dark workspace, her expression schooled impeccably neutral as she listened to his story without interrupting. In the end all she’d said was  _you have an hour to get your notes together for Jovanovich, he’ll be covering your position until a replacement arrives_.

That, as they say, was that.


	7. Heat - M!Courier/Arcade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heat - M!Courier/Arcade

Api runs real warm these days. Hot to the touch, almost enough to sizzle when Arcade touches him. A wrist pressed to the heat of his forehead, professional, and Api's mouth on his dick, the opposite of professional.   
  
Hardware, he says, as if that's any explanation worth its value. New bits, new pieces, freshly installed parts for the machine. The warmth pouring from him is one in a thousand small changes since he came back from the east with a new set of scars 'round the back of his head and down his spine, cut clean and stitched mechanically straight. Arcade fingers the fine line in his hair when he thinks Api isn't paying attention, traces it where it matches the curve of his skull, and thinks about the time he observed a neurosurgery clinic and filed the phrase  _the scalp can be peeled back with minimal force_  away in his memory.   
  
Late at night when the sheets are warm and Api's skin sticks to his chest, damp and sweaty and searing hot, it's hard to put it out of his mind. New hardware. New cuts, new installations. He turns the pillow over again and again, always chasing a moment of cool respite, and averts his eyes from the straight silver slice that maps Api's spine lest he gives in and touches it again, and again, and again.


	8. Soothe - Cass & Arcade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you need moral support, there's no one better than Cass.

"C'mon sunshine," said Cass affectionately as she lit him a cigarette. "Chin up. You look like you're gonna puke on your size elevens."  
  
Arcade seized the cigarette like a drowning man clutching at a life ring, drawing back hard enough to make the cherry glow brilliant red. "Don't mock me," he said, breathing a weak smoke ring into the air. "I don't deal well with this kind of pressure."  
  
"Says the man who got rip roarin' drunk and thought a long-winded gory story about performing six emergency amputations in a day would make for good dinner conversation."  
  
"That's different," said Arcade. "That story involved a gas explosion and bone saws and makes me look heroic. That's… y'know, different. Different pressure that I know how to deal with. Uh, differently."  
  
"Check that red hot counter argument, hoss," said Cass. "I'm convinced."  
  
"Quit your bullying," he said tiredly. "I'm too emotionally fragile to be Cass'd this morning."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Fine, you tender flower. How's the suit?"  
  
"A size too small." He held out his arms so she could see for herself how the sleeves rode up his wrists. "I also suspect that it has bedbugs. Or fleas."  
  
Cass snorted and shifted a little against the wall, one foot drawn up to her knee and braced against the brickwork. It was still cool to lean against, the baking Boneyard heat not yet fiery enough to sink into the bricks. "Sounds like you're _displacing your emotions_." She made the appropriate finger quotes in the air, even while holding a beat pack of smokes and a gaudy silver handbag. "Focus on the moment, doc."  
  
He ashed his cigarette in her general direction. "And you're not helping. I thought you were supposed to be my moral support?"  
  
"I  _am_  helping," she countered. "Needling you is my official duty this morning, lest you shit your britches and back out 'cause you think you're scared of commitment."  
  
"I'm not…" He trailed off, trying to find a way of articulating his thoughts without resorting to actual lies. "I am _wary_ of legally binding contracts."  
  
"Mmhmm."  
  
"And it's good to keep my options open."  
  
Cass hooted with laughter at that, pressing a hand to her breast and wheezing until her eyes watered. Arcade sighed with resignation and primly smoked his cigarette back to the filter, waiting for her to finish mocking him.   
  
"Christ almighty, Gannon," she said, blotting her eyes dry on her sleeve. "Warn me next time you drop a pearler like that. You know my heart isn't that good."  
  
He dropped the cigarette butt to the ground, grinding it out under the heel of his dress shoe. "You're lucky I'm fond of you enough to give you CPR."  
  
Cass ignored him in favour of ticking off her points on her fingers. "You've been in the same job for over twelve years. You've worked for the Followers since you were--?"  
  
"Nineteen."  
  
"Since you were nineteen," she said. "And you're 45 now."  
  
"44, thank you."  
  
"45," she said. "Close enough to it. 26 years, you goddamn fossil."  
  
Arcade picked at the collar of his shirt and waited for her to continue.   
  
"And you been playing house with that big ol' lunk for nine years. I'm just gonna tell you right now, face to face, that commitment is not an issue for you."  
  
"I wish you'd opened with this material instead of mocking me for ten minutes straight," he said, without any hint of censure in his tone. "You're a good friend when you feel like it."  
  
"You know it, pal," said Cass sunnily. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and gave him a little squeeze. "You're not too bad yourself."  
  
"This is touching," he said eventually, taking a deep breath and standing up straight. He combed his fingers through his hair, pushing an errant curl back into place. "But I've got something else I should probably be doing though."  
  
"Hell yeah," said Cass, smoothing his collar and smacking his ass for good measure. "I knew you'd get over your nerves with a bit of TLC. C'mon, big fella. He's waiting inside, so let's go get your dumb ass married good n' proper."


	9. Hangover - Arcade & Veronica

"I'm dying."  
  
Arcade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he silently appealed to whatever higher power felt like taking pity on him. "You're not dying."  
  
"I'm _dying_."  
  
He pulled back the sheets, the sudden influx of light making Veronica wince and throw a hand over her face. "Do you or do you not want a professional opinion re: your potential for death? Humor me. Help me to help you, Miss Santangelo."  
  
She squinted up at him. "You talk too much."  
  
"So I've been told." He got comfortable on the edge of the bed, tapping her on the nose and taking advantage of the resulting flurry of weak slaps to catch her wrist and make a show of taking her pulse. "So. Pay attention because I don't like playing this clothed version of Play Doctor very often. I have good news: you're not dying."  
  
Veronica wriggled free, curling into a ball and resting her head on the soft cotton of Arcade's knee. From her point of view the guest bedroom light created a halo of golden light in his unbrushed hair, adding an air of innocence to Arcade Gannon that Veronica _knew_ was entirely undeserved.   
  
"I want a second opinion."  
  
"Boone? I can call Boone in here. You can call him Dr Craig."  
  
She smacked him in the ribs. "I'm still dying."  
  
"Veronica 'Vodka' Santangelo, I can promise you that you're not dying." A big cool hand was pressed to her forehead, the gentle gesture slightly marred by the fact that he was laughing at her. "You're very, _very_ hungover, but not dying."  
  
"Where's that second opinion?" Veronica grabbed his hand and turned it over, digging her knuckles into a pressure point until he cried uncle and promised to bring her a bottle of water. "I trust Dr Craig more than you."  
  
"We all trust Dr Craig," said Arcade soothingly. "I've taught him everything I know about Playing Doctor."  
  
"Gross," said Veronica, her voice muffled by the pillow she was attempting to burrow her way into. "That's the worst thing you've ever said to me. I'm just going to stay here and continue dying. Farewell, cruel world."  
  
He patted her on the shoulder and got to his feet, ignoring her groan of protest as the sagging bedsprings made the mattress creak. "You do that. Nurse Lily will be in soon."  
  
" _I'm dying._ "


	10. Tradition - Arcade, Boone, Cass

_"_ Tradition," Arcade said, "Is only what what you make of it." A fine sentiment, delivered in a tone of suitable grandeur from behind a glass of reasonably good whisky, in the middle of the kitchen at a spot almost, but not quite, perfectly calculated to be as in the way as much as possible.  
  
"Tradition," Cass said dryly as she steered her roaringly drunk friend to a chair in the corner where he could continue his soliloquy out of the way of hot ovens and sizzling pans, "Is gonna get its ass burnt on a hot pot if it doesn't get out of the way."  
  
Every Christmas for the past few played out the same way. Boone opened up his shitty little two room dogbox of an apartment and cooked a fantastic meal with grim determination. Cass provided the funds, liquid and otherwise, to make the table groan with laden plates and full glasses. Arcade got into the spirit - and the spirits - by two in the afternoon, drinking himself into a state of joie de vivre not seen on the other 364 days of the year.

Sometimes the Doc made himself useful by lighting a candle to set in the window and putting some dried poinsettias in a vase, sometimes he got it into his head to cut a string of snowflakes out from the folded pages of the Shady Sands Gazette before anyone could finishing read the sports page, but mostly he just got himself drunk and loud and full of uncharacteristic good cheer. He inevitably insisted on delivering a loud sermon on whatever was on his mind at the time, always underfoot and in the way while Boone got to the business of cooking their dinner with as much seriousness and focus as he applied to nearly every facet of his life.  
  
What Boone lacked in fun he made up for in a grim laser-like precision at producing a celebratory meal that would make angels weep, or at least send Doc Gannon into paroxysms of inebriated joy at the technical skill involved in turning out a well-honed carrot.

"A perfect baton," he said, holding up the offending object as if to show Cass and Boone that yes, it was a carrot. As if two of them hadn't just spent an hour with bowls and paring knives and a mountain of vegetables while Arcade amused himself with chasing the bottom of a bottle and telling the same stories he told last year and the year before that. Just in case they forgot. "A well... shit, I dropped it. A well crafted carrot."  
  
At least it made the doc happy, they figured. He liked being useless but involved. Probably made a nice change from being constantly useful and involved whether he liked it or not, constantly elbows deep in the sick and stressed detritus of Vegas out of some stubborn belief that for every boil he lanced and every condom demonstration lecture he gave, the percentage of net good in the greater New Vegas area would increase just a little. Cass liked the respite of getting away from business for a few days as well, and and it was decided a long time ago by people who cared about his wellbeing it was best that Boone keep himself extra busy at this time of the year. Hard to be maudlin when there's two other people filling his apartment with crude jokes and barked orders and half-cut drunk speeches about vegetables.

Maybe that was a tradition in itself. The noise, the dick jokes, and the soliloquies about whatever was in Doc Gannon's line of sight at any given moment.


	11. NYE - Cass & Arcade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zi2mbSG609Q

"You dance?"  
  
"Badly." Arcade looked up from his glass, more empty than full, and fixed Cass with what he imagined was a stern and steely look. " _No_."  
  
"No?" Cass put down her glass with an emphatic thump and slid out of the faded leatherette booth with more grace than several solid hours of whisky should allow. "C'mon miseryguts. The least you can do tonight is dance a little two step with me."  
  
"I will do no such thing. God, what did you put in this drink, Cass? I feel like I've just chugged a glass of turpentine."  
  
She ignored him anyway, taking him by the arm and bodily hauling him to his feet. He didn't protest too much, just put his hands at twelve and three and muttered that he would like to lead, thank you very much.   
  
There wasn't much to celebrate this year. Too many people missing, too many fresh graves and empty beds. It was tempting to spend the night deep in his cups, staring at the bottom of a glass and thinking about his lost chances and missed opportunities, but Cass was a breath of fresh air, even now, chiding him for being morose and telling him to keep his chin up. The Lucky 38 cocktail lounge wasn't the most convivial spot for a night that was supposed to be about new beginnings and blank slates, but Cass put the radio on loud and kept the conversation light, and for that he was grateful.   
  
"You like this song?"   
  
"I have no real opinions either way, Cass." He pulled her a little closer and did a little shimmy on the beat, making her laugh and grab at his waist. "It's fine," he allowed. "Of all the schmaltzy tunes you could've chosen, this is maybe the second worst."  
  
"What's the worst?"  
  
Arcade laughed. "Lets just say I don't care about Johnny or his guitar."  
  
They lapsed into silence after that, swaying to the beat in a lazy circle, step by step, Cass's hair tickling his nose as she rested her head on his shoulder.   
  
"Do you miss them?"  
  
She didn't have to say who. They were the last ones left, orbiting New Vegas like sad little asteroids, unable to tear themselves away from its lights and memories and obligations. Some of the others had left town, keen to part ways and find their own stories. The others - Boone, Raul, even sweet Lily - were in the earth, buried hastily on a hillside overlooking Hoover Dam, forever looking towards the place they'd finally been cut down.   
  
He wanted to leave Vegas, he really did, but he felt a duty to stay in Freeside and keep soldiering on. It was his job. Cass… he didn't know what kept her here. Money, maybe. Money or opportunity. He had no doubt she'd land on her feet no matter what happened in the future, but for now she was just like him, stuck in place and unable to move on.   
  
"Yeah," he said eventually. "I do."   
  
She pulled back and looked at him intently, not buying his shit for a moment. "Don't you go gettin' all emotional on me, Doc."  
  
Just for that he dipped her deep and low, threatening to drop her until she squawked for mercy and pummeled him on his shoulder.   
  
"I'll promise not to soak your shirt with my tears," he said dryly, uprighting her with a flourish. "Lets not talk about this, okay? Maybe later, but not tonight."  
  
She nodded solemnly in agreement. Outside the windows shone red and green with the flares shot high from below, and on the radio Mr New Vegas counted down to midnight. They kept dancing anyway, their feet marking a slow one-two-three against the dusty linoleum, and when the clock struck midnight Arcade dipped Cass once more and gallantly planted chaste kisses on her lips and cheeks and brow until she cried with laughter.   
  
"Happy new year, Arcade," she said, and hugged him close. "Glad you stuck around."  
  
"You too," he said, for a moment feeling uncharacteristically positive. Maybe it would all work out for the better. Maybe this year was going to be his year. Maybe…

Maybe he shouldn't overthink it.

"You too, Cass."


	12. Old Friends - Arcade/Boone & Manny Vargas

It's a hell of a surprise when Manny steps out into the chilled night air for a cigarette and glances up in time to see ol' Miss Daisy's boy leaning nonchalantly against the motel balcony railing, meditatively rolling a cigarette of his own and squinting into the desert darkness. It's been three, nearly four years since he saw him up close and not just a hurried nod as the doc made a flying visit to check on his feisty yet increasingly fragile aunt. He looks good, Manny decides. His hair is unbrushed and there'so a solid three day growth along his jaw, and it suits him greatly. Manny takes another glance, and another.  
  
They stand there a while in silence, Arcade upstairs and Manny highlighted in searing bright detail by the forecourt campfire, until Manny can't stand it any more and offers up a _hey man_.  
  
Arcade says _hey_ back, on the polite side of friendly, and seals his rolling paper with a flick of his tongue.  
  
"I've got a light down here if you want it."  
  
Arcade leans his weight on one foot to scratch at his ankle, and Manny permits himself a moment of admiration for the long lines of his legs, muscled and lean for someone who looked at plants all day. Daisy hadn't exactly been clear on what her nephew did, and Manny hadn't been interested enough to ask, but clearly someone had undersold him on Arcade's attributes by a whole damn lot.  
  
"Just so we're clear, are you offering me a match or the campfire?"  
  
Manny shrugs expansively. "I was going to offer you my zippo, but if you demand the gift of fire, then I guess I'll make that happen."  
  
"Well, I do admire a man willing to charge Mount Olympus for me, but--"  
  
Acade stops and looks back over his shoulder, listening to an unseen voice. Manny waits a moment, still desperately trying to form some kind of riposte about mounting Olympus. He's almost got something cringeworthy and cheesy ready to let fly when Arcade shuffles over a little and Boone joins him at the railing, a lit smoke between pursed lips. He motions for Arcade to stay still and lights his cigarette behind cupped fingers, before shaking out his match and dropping it to the cracked concrete before. He's barefoot and beretless, and for a moment Manny deals with the disconcerting thought that this was the equivalent of his former friend standing there buck naked.  
  
"Hey," says Manny lamely. "Craig. It's been too long, man. How have you been?"  
  
Boone ignores him. "Reckon you'll be good to travel by morning?"  
  
"What's the rush?" Arcade exhales a hazy breath towards the moths dancing around the overhead light, and glances over at Boone. "That sick of me already?"  
  
Manny sees rather than hears Boone's inaudible _heh_ , and decides that now would be the perfect time to retreat and regroup and recon. He flicks the butt of his cigarette in the fire and bids a cheerful goodnight, stepping under the shadowed lee of the balcony. He opens his apartment door and, still outside, closes it with loud _snick_ of the lock sliding home.  
  
"Old friend of yours?"  
  
"Nah," says Boone eventually. "No one worth thinking about."  
  
"If you say so." There's a long silence, stretching on and on until Manny is convinced that they can hear him breathing. "I hope you weren't serious about leaving in the morning."  
  
"Maybe." Someone throws their cigarette butt down, the ember sparking as it pinwheels into the dust before fading into nothingness. "Not exactly the nicest place I could've taken you."  
  
"Compared to Freeside it's like a spa resort." The second cigarette follows the first, hitting the concrete and rolling to a stop at Manny's feet. "C'mere, you idiot." There's a soft sound of rustling cloth and the creak of sagging balcony railings, and Manny holds his breath and stares upwards and convinces himself he can hear the soft sounds of Boone's thin mouth kissing Miss Daisy's boy breathless.

When the motel door upstairs closes and he's sure that neither Boone nor Arcade are still outside, he unlocks his door and shakes his head. Miss Daisy always said her nephew had a habit of selling himself short. He could do better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Tumblr where I post nothing of value: [wastelandbonerhell](http://wastelandbonerhell.tumblr.com). Come say hi!


	13. Dear Caesar - M!Courier & Companions

"A letter "  
  
"Yes," said Courier.   
  
"A letter," said Veronica flatly.   
  
"It's a bit of a pansy move, don't you think?" Cass rocked back in her chair and braced her boots against the of the dining table. "Maybe you could wrap it around some dynamite."  
  
"No need." Courier frowned, licking the tip of his pencil and making a careful amendment to the repurposed sheet of scrap paper. "I think it'll have enough… howd'ya say, _oomph_."  
  
"A letter." Veronica pushed her hood back far enough to scratch at her neck. "And here I was thinking you're a boots and all sort of go-getter. Asses kicked, not intellects engaged."  
  
"The written word is powerful." Courier crossed out a word and frowned at the paper. "Or it would be if I could find the right damn word."  
  
Raul glanced up from his steak. "Want me to call Blondie in to help?" He paused and pointed at Courier with his fork. "Or Craig. Bet he's quite the wordsmith, hey boss?"  
  
"Don't be mean," said Courier right as Boone walked into the kitchen and said _what_.   
  
"I don't have a mean bone in my body. Lots of creaky ones though," said Raul, and went back to his steak.   
  
Courier ignored him; ignored everyone, and particularly ignored Boone as he nudged Cass and asked what he missed.   
  
"Where's Arcade?" A word was underlined with an audible scratch, then underlined again. "Boone?"  
  
"Down at the Wrangler. Robot fan club meeting."  
  
"That's on Monday nights," said the man of the hour himself, beelining to the fridge. "It's more of an appreciation society than a fan club. You called?"  
  
"Hands on engineering experience," said Raul. Veronica mumbled  _load testing FISTO's platform_ and hid her smile behind her hand.   
  
"What was it… we were talking about it the other day. A place to hurl."  
  
Arcade held a bottle of beer to his crooked elbow, flexing just enough to free the cap and send a miniature cascade of froth onto the tip of his boot. "Vomitorium? I hope you're not planning on redecorating."  
  
"No," Courier said, tapping the pencil against the edge of the table. "Not today, anyway."  
  
"Good." He took a long swig of his beer. "Because that's not what that means. Technically. It's more of a myth than an actual, you know, place to--"  
  
_Puke_ said Boone in chorus with Veronica's _hork_ and Cass' _re-dandy your apples_.   
  
"Orally evacuate your digestive material," continued Arcade, ignoring them with the kind of aplomb native to a man well practiced in ignoring other people.   
  
"Hmm. Maybe that's not the word I'm after. Or the mood. Fuck, letter writing is some real brahminshit." Tap, tap, tap. He frowned. "The other day. What was it you said? ED-E was chasing after that deathclaw and you said--"  
  
"Good riddance to scrap metal."  
  
Petulant beeping echoed in from the hallway.   
  
"Did I say that out loud? How rude of me." Arcade deposited his beer on the kitchen bench just long enough to shrug off his dirty lab coat, relaxing against the ancient melamine. "Oh, wait. This isn't your gentle letter to the fair damsel in his furs and finery on the other side of the river, is it?"

"Mmhmm. I need a good ending for Caesar. Something with a little pizazz."   
  
"And you thought of me? I'm flattered." He let Boone's scoff pass without comment. "Morituros vos salutamus. M-o-r-i-t-u-r-o-s. Maybe draw a smiley face at the end."   
  
Courier scrawled a signature and motioned at Arcade to stop standing there and make himself useful. "Proofread it, genius."  
  
Arcade slapped away Cass's hand as she made to intercept the letter. He stood at Courier's back and turned the letter to catch the dim kitchen light, and if Veronica squinted just right she could see that there was just three lines of Courier's neat handwriting on the thin, creased paper.   
  
"You're making a good move, boss." Raul set down his steak knife and propped his elbows on the table. "Put him on the back foot with a sweet letter. It worked to chase off my first girlfriend, obviously it'll work on a megalomaniac with a standing army."  
  
"Trust me, Raul." Courier blindly reached back and plucked the beer bottle from Arcade's hand, wiping the top clean on his shirt and taking a hearty swallow. "You trust me, don't you?"  
  
"Only as far as I could throw you, boss," said Raul cheerfully.   
  
Courier grinned. "You're a smart guy, despite that mustache."  
  
Arcade cleared his throat and leaned over to murmur something into Courier's ear, a small twitch to the corner of his mouth giving away his amusement. It was exactly the same look he wore when beating Veronica at Caravan, and she suddenly had more than a good idea of exactly what Courier had written to Caesar.  
  
"What do you think?" Courier took back his letter but pointedly kept Arcade's beer to himself. "Does it need anything else?"  
  
"I think you've got it just right. You've certainly got a knack for putting cordial menace into words."  
  
"Thank you. You're the best teacher a man could have. Don't you agree, Boone?"  
  
Boone examined his nails and kept his opinion to himself.   
  
Courier folded the letter and ran his thumbnail along the crease, tucking it into a battered envelope held together with silver electrical tape. He sat back on his chair and polished off his purloined beer, sending the empty bottle spinning down the table. It came to a stop at the end of the table, gently rocking on the edge before Cass gave the table a thump and sent it tumbling to the floor.   
  
The cause of - and solution to - many of the Mojave's problems folded his arms and grinned at his gathered companions. "A letter," he said cheerfully. "Let's send him a nice letter and let him know we're thinking of him. After all, it's only polite to let a fella know that you're planning on torching his house."  
  
"Morituros vos salutamus," said Arcade. "Pax Mojave, right?"  
  
"Exactly," said Courier, his smile brighter than the sun on Jacobstown snow. "Pax Mojave, whether that fucker likes it or not. I hope he writes back. I've always wanted a pen-pal."


	14. Ruby Red - Sydney/Willow

At first it's nothing more than a kiss or two. A brush of chapped lips against hers under the watchful moon, dry and sweet or deep and demanding. Willow's lips were coarse underneath her lipstick, enough to make Sydney's mouth sting as she braced her shoulders against the cool stone walls and felt the heat of Willow's hands rest on her hips. 

Willow never apologised for the lipstick smudged and smeared and kissed into her skin though, just looked mighty pleased with herself. Hell, she figured it was nice to walk away with a mark or two. Wiping it away with stale water and an old towel washed as coarse as ghoul lips reminded her that Willow was out there underneath the sun and stars. The towel was stained ruby red before long. She kept it hidden away like a trophy, a private little reminder just for herself.

They celebrated the day her shop turned its first profit. She tied her hair back as neatly as she could and slipped out long after dark with a bottle of brandy she bought from a trader. The brandy cork crumbled into dust the moment she opened the bottle, but they drank it anyway as she closed her eyes, all too aware of Willow's fingertips played at the nape of her bared neck. When Willow kissed her she tasted of old alcohol long into its rot, like old sour cork, like dust, like ghoul flesh, like Willow. When Willow bit at her collarbone and slid her rough hands along the skin of her belly and pushed up her shirt, she stared up at the stars and moaned about as loud as she'd ever done. They would've kept going 'cept there was a noise out beyond the walls, enough to make them watchful, make them wary. 

Willow gave her a moment to get herself together and kissed her again with those skunked-sour lips as the moon shone on her rifle, gleaming oily and dark and just-so. Beautiful. Willow'd give her a punch that'd leave her arm blue if she said that though, so she kept that thought tucked away in her head. 

She examined herself in the mirror later and laughed at the smear of lipstick along her collarbone. There was a perfect ruby red kiss print on her pulse point and it was almost a shame to rub it away before anyone made comment and caused her blush like a damn fool.

There wasn't much privacy inside. There's an alcove away from the desk that does in a pinch when people need a little time alone. Time together, even, under the watchful guardianship of an animal more long-dead than all of them. When she presses her cheek to the wall she can see those big ol' bones staring at her with empty eyes, watching her skin flush red as she bites her lips and tries not to make a sound. Damn hard when Willow's got those coarse dry lips on her, scraping up her skin as she sucked at her clit. It's almost painful, all pressure and friction, and that gun callous of hers feels like a glorious itch as she fingers her good and deep, as fast as she likes it and a little more. When she comes all too quickly there was a good slick of wet all down Willow's chin, smudged and smeared with her ruby red lipstick. 

For a moment or two Sydney thought she should wipe it away, but to hell with it. About time Willow wore a ruby red mark of her own.


	15. First Dates - Carla/m!OC, Carla/f!Boone

Jimmy Davis had taken Carla to The Tops and spent the entire night at the roulette table, making excuses to rub her thigh for luck. When he busted three times in a row, he said she should rub something of his for luck. She left soon after, smiling to herself as he scrabbled around on the floor trying to recover his meager pile of chips and cussing up a storm.

* * *

Cpl Peterson took her to Vault 21 and booked a room, affronted when Carla neatly removed her hand from her backside and said that if - if - she was going to be inclined to humour some inexpert fumblings on the first date, it wouldn’t be with a man who thought that a single bed in a shared dormitory was the height of romance.

* * *

Simon McPhee was sweet, booked her a table at the Ultra Luxe and everything, but halfway through the night he was doe-eyed and telling her of his dream of moving west and trying to join the Cattleman’s Association. She smiled and patted his hand and gently let him down. It would be a heck of a man to convince to her move from the bright lights of New Vegas, not after a year of scrimping and saving to get here, and Simon wasn’t that man.

* * *

Christine Boone bumped into her at the gate of New Vegas - literally, sending her bag flying and a Securitron rolling over to investigate - and dropped to her knees to gather her things with a mumbled apology peppered with miss and ma’am before offering to carry her bag home. It was late and the squatters made her nervous, but for all her nervous fumbling this Boone seemed like she'd know how to square off. Carla agreed. When she showed up at her door the next day - beet red already, with a slightly wilted bunch of flowers to match - and asked if Miss Carla would like to accompany her to a boxing exhibition, she agreed without hesitation. It seemed like the least she could do to say thank you.


	16. For Carla - Boone

There’s a spot just past the old gas station that he visits every now and then. Not much there to see, just a few weathered boulders and some cactus plants. The ground is hard and the air is hot, and tucked away out of the wind there’s a stone with Carla written on it.

Feels like it’s been forever since he picked up that rock and painted her name on it as neatly as he could. He knew it wasn’t really her style, she’d never been one for back to nature and all that brahminshit, but it seemed more fitting than a few words mumbled over a headstone. No point in ashes to ashes and dust to dust when there was no body to burn in the first place, and back then he’d be damned if he was going to stand there with his cap in hand listening to a bunch of folk make nice when one of ‘em had just as much of her blood on their hands as he did.

His handiwork hadn’t been much to begin with, just a bit of chalk paint and effort, but the seasons have made their mark and the letters have faded right back to the stone. He’s decided against repainting it though. Feels appropriate to just… just let it go. Let her go. The rock will still be there, he figures. She’ll still be there. 


	17. Adornment - M!Courier/Arcade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piercing.

He wasn't real sure how finicky the doc might be, whether he was all sterilised and proper and couldn't abide a little grit behind his ears, but when he ventures that a good wash down by the river might be in order all he got in return was an enthusiastic yes.  _I'm marinating in my own sweat and that's the best idea I think I've heard you express all week._  
  
The state of Gannon's clothes should've probably given that away, he thinks. No fussy type could stand to stride around in a coat with so much grime worn into the collar. It's a wonder he can't grow his own plant specimens in the hem of his labcoat.  
  
Courier strips to his skivvies and wrings out his shirt in the shallows, and cups handfuls of cool water 'neath his pits and down the back of his neck. Beside him the doc does the same, tossing his socks with the holes in the heels into the water and crouching to splash his face and wet his glasses. Courier courteously keeps his eyes on the skyline. The doc might be a bit of a mystery, all bluster and front, but it didn't pay to stare when he was in a vulnerable state of undress. Ain't sporting behaviour to go peeking.  
  
There's a splash behind him and the doc spits out a loud, _god fucking damnit, my glasses_. A change from his five cap words, and loud enough to startle the birds from the trees, and definitely loud enough to make Courier spin on his heel and reach for a sidearm that isn't there.  
  
“My glasses,” says Arcade again, holding his hands wide and squinting up at him. The water laps around his knees. “I dropped them. I can't see them.”  
  
The water is clear enough that Courier can see 'em just fine, resting on the pebbled riverbed and no doubt getting the first proper wash they've had in months. He picks 'em up and gives them a good shake, and makes no comment about the look of pure relief crossing the doc's normally guarded expression. He does, however, stare at the wink of metal on Arcade's chest, shining silver in the light beaming off the river water.  
  
“You'll give me a complex,” says Arcade, carefully returning his specs to their rightful position. “At least buy me dinner before you ogle me like this.”  
  
Courier takes a last look at the twin balls of metal sitting slightly crooked against the rosy pink of Arcade's nipple, and studiously sets about finishing his own wash. “Din't know you were the adornment type.”  
  
He can _feel_ the look of confusion radiating out behind him, Arcade's desire to never admit that he didn't know what someone was talking about warring with his twin desire to never let someone best him with words. The latter wins out, eventually. “Adornment?”  
  
He gestures at his own chest, unwilling to actually say the word 'nipple'. The tips of his ears feel hot, faintly embarrassed at the personal nature of their conversation.  
  
“Oh,” says the doc, and chuckles halfheartedly. “That.” He splashes nosily, the spray hitting Courier on the back of his knees. “Medical school,” he adds after a while, as if that was explanation enough. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Ready access to needles, too much to drink.”  
  
“Like most things,” says Courier. He risks another look. “Don't it hurt?”  
  
“What, now? Only if it gets hooked in my undershirt.”  
  
Arcade flicks at it with his thumbnail, well practiced like an old party trick. The heat from Courier's ears begins to crawl across his cheeks like a sunset, his face turning cherry red.  
  
“Wash up,” he says eventually, grabbing his armful of wet clothes and fording to the bank like his heels were on fire. “I'll get a camp going, put on some water.”  
  
“I'll call you if I lose my glasses again,” says Arcade, sounding suspiciously like he's trying not to laugh. “It's your turn to cook, by the way. All this staring at my lily white body, you owe me a meal.”


	18. It's Only Fair - Arcade/Lucius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW mild mention of suicide.

Arcade is cautious around Lucius, and Lucius is careful around him. Conversation isn't appropriate, not between slaves and officers, but he offers Lucius a small nod of thanks when an extra plate of food or an uncensored book is delivered to his little cramped room. In return he quietly tends to a bleeding slash on Lucius's forearm when he returns from a sortie, out of sight of the healers who gossip about weaknesses and age and the man who is Caesar's shield.

The sun sets on the Mojave. Arcade knows he'll never see it again.  
  
He travels with Lucius' caravan on the trip back to Flagstaff. They sit in the back of the wagon and watch the landscape roll past, silent and wary. Arcade makes his escape on the fifth night, waiting until the fires have turned to coals and the moon is behind the clouds. The patrols find him before dawn, and the slavemaster himself whips his thighs with a heavy leather belt. He lays under the canvas of the wagon as it rolls further east, and doesn't say a word when Lucius quietly presses a flask of bitter, oily liquid to his lips and pats him awkwardly on the hand.

"It's only fair, Arcade," he says, and means it.  
  
Lucius's wife passes away in Arcade's sixth year in Flagstaff. He sits with her and helps ease her suffering, and Lucius watches from the doorway, his face ashen and tight.

He stops at the doorway and touches Lucius on the shoulder, and says, "I'm sorry." It's the first genuine thing he's said in years, and means it.  
  
The seasons roll on. One afternoon, deep under the shadows of the old observatory, Arcade catches Lucius's wrist and kisses him on the corner of his mouth, and says he's going to kill himself. Lucius nods and says his goodbyes with a dry brush of lips against Arcade's jaw, and doesn't tell him to stop.

"It's only fair," he says, and means it.


	19. The Mirror - Arcade/Boone (NSFW)

Boone makes a grunting noise on every downstroke. It's not attractive, except that it is and yet isn't, all at the same time. Ugly attractive. Attractively ugly. _Ungh-ungh-ungh_ huffed out again and again on every stroke, his mouth hanging open and his eyes half closed.

He's got a big hand braced against the headboard to stop himself from pitching forward into the wood every time Arcade's thighs hit against his own with a sweaty slap. Arcade's got his other hand pinned up between his shoulderblades in a way that makes him twist around, muscles bunched as he tries to get a full breath. Boone gets turned on whenever he does that, holds him down and folds him around and makes him moan real loud. It'd be rude not to oblige him.

The Gomorrah is gauche, of course. Tacky and gaudy too, but the drinks are cheap, the air conditioning sometimes works and the sheets get washed regularly. The suites have mirrors by the bed, a novelty in themselves, and Arcade takes great delight in using them as much as possible. He likes to watch their reflection whenever they fool around and fuck, picked out in the bare overhead lights like crude sculptures. Arcade takes a particular delight in standing him in front of the mirrors with the lights on full and his hands tracing out every bunch and flex of muscle as Boone jerks off, toes curling into the dirty carpet as the doc bites at his tricep and mouths at his delts.

But that was before, and this is now. Now he's got a whole new tableau to admire. Arcade shifts a little, slides his weight to one leg so he can get a better angle to watch his dick sink into the hard lines of Boone's ass, all bones and sinew and long ropey muscle. Boone's cock swings back and forth with every thrust, thick and untouched, and Arcade amuses himself by seeing if he can fuck him hard enough to bounce it off Boone's belly, hard enough to hurt a little. He can, and he does, and Boone says something like _you're gonna fuckin' kill me, christ, fuck_ and arches his back for more.

He'd get this on holotape if he could, something to take home and watch again and again until he's got it memorised. Boone's all hard lines and compact muscle, got a look that'd work great on camera. Boone gets red around the ears when he says this, and turns redder still when Arcade makes jokes that aren't really jokes about inviting someone up to witness just how good Boone looks under lights. _Maybe_ , he says, chewing his lip. _Better looking people for that._

Arcade finishes first, jerking off over his ass and smearing it into his skin for good measure. He obliges Boone and turns around, reclining back on the mattress and taking his hand to help him kneel over his chest. Boone comes over his lips and chin in thick salty bursts, his chest rising and falling like a bellows as he takes big lungfuls of musty hotel air.

"Christ, Gannon," says Boone tiredly. He kisses him, ignoring the wet slick of his own semen smearing on his lips. "You're gonna kill me."

"You're welcome," Arcade replies airily, as always. Like it's a one way transaction and he gets nothing out of it, but that, too, is all a part of the game. He blindly turns off the bedside lamp, plunging them both into the crisp shadow and harsh light of the bare bulb shining from above, and admires the way they look in the mirror. "You are absolutely more than welcome."


	20. Relax - F!Arcade/F!Boone

"Christ, Gannon. It's like midnight in here. You keeping the bedroom this dark for a reason?"  
  
Arcade looked up from her work, papers scattered across the covers and near sliding off the side of the bed. "I like to keep my light flattering, thank you. It makes you passable and renders me stunning."   
  
"Reckon you do alright on that by yourself," said Boone, the corners of her eyes crinkling a little in a small private smile. "No shirt helps too."  
  
Arcade carefully marked her place in her notes with a bended corner and shuffled the loose papers into some kind of order, leaving her glasses on top to hold them down. The mass of pillows shifted precariously as she moved. She'd thieved them from every other bed in the presidential suit and stacked them high at her back, and Boone thought it kinda made Arcade look like some imperious empress lounging on her regal bed. She looked like something from those old swords'n'sandals vids she'd seen as a kid at the two cap theatre, wavering images projected on a bedsheet that moved with the breeze.

It was good. She looked good. 

"You sound like you're angling for something." A little bite to her words, but no teeth. Any opportunity to deploy a good solid flirt, and leave Boone a lil' pink 'round the ears. She lay back into the pillows and smoothed her palm down her belly, pushing the sheets down a little, enough to give a coy peek of the slope of her breast. "I _may_ be convinced to take a break if someone--"

Boone finished the sentence for her, snapped the sheets down with a yank. The last of Arcade's notes fluttered to the ground as she snorted with laughter, patting invitingly at her bare thigh in a summons for Boone to come and take her rightful place.  
  
"So," Arcade started, watching Boone strip without ceremony, grey undershorts kicked away and her bra tossed at the foot of the bed. When she swung her leg over Arcade's lap and settled skin to skin, Arcade indulged herself with feeling the dense muscle of Boone's shoulders, feeling her tense and flow under her fingertips, to the shallow dip of Boone's waist, to ghosting down her thighs and back to the soft weight of her cock. Time spent on the road with their mutual employer had crafted Boone into power and sinew, her form an unyielding line under Arcade's touch. _Stunning,_ she thought, but didn't say it aloud.

"So," said Boone in return, craning down to kiss her. She cupped Arcade's face 'tween her palms - different places, different feel to each hand, soft and gentle and hard and knotted by unkind work - and kissed her real sweet.  
  
"I'm convinced," Arcade said when they broke apart, touching Boone's fingers at her cheek. She felt faintly out of breath, the delicious fizz of arousal coiling through her belly, half hard and wanting. "You're extremely convincing." She made to hunch forward and press her mouth to Boone's breast, all tongue and teeth firm against her dark nipples, good and mean in the way that always makes Boone grunt hard and claw her chewed nails into Arcade's hair, but a solid hand planted square on her chest pushed her back to the pillows.  
  
"Relax," said Boone, and she braced her weight against the headboard and gifted her with a lopsided smile, barely visible in the dim light of the master bedroom of the Lucky 38. "I'm convincing you to take a break, right? You just relax. Let me."

* * *

 


End file.
